The Weight of Him(10)

Billy sat trembling with his idea. He could set a weight goal and people could pay him for every pound he lost. Or, like the walkathon, they could donate a flat amount. He rubbed at his mouth. Michael’s death had cut him in two, so he would set his weight-loss goal at two hundred pounds. Half of himself. The money he raised would help save lives, in Michael’s memory. He grew inches on his chair.

Tricia and his mother chatted. Another idea gripped him. For Michael’s funeral, hundreds of mourners had formed a procession behind the hearse like a dark flood, following the boy in his coffin from the house and to the church. People crowded villages all over the country in similar processions for the dead. But what if they walked with Billy in their droves to prevent suicide and save lives?

The more he thought on his ideas, the more convinced he felt. He could really do good with this, and make some meaning out of the awful. Several times he began to tell Tricia and his mother, but he couldn’t get the words out. Something told him that the moment he spoke his plans aloud, they would be diminished.

*

Billy hung his head over the blue casserole dish, taking in the intoxicating waft of garlic, beef, and vegetables. His tongue tingled with the spicy memory of paprika. Hungarian goulash was one of his favorites. He refused even a small amount, though, opting instead for yet another bowl of vegetable soup.

He carried the steaming soup to the table, struggling not to spill any. He was shaky all over, a nervous feeling coursing through him. Adrenaline, too. Since his mother’s visit, he could think of nothing else but going public with his diet and organizing the march of all marches through the village.

Anna also refused the goulash. “It’s too gooey,” she said. The light fixture above her head brought out the golden in her hair. Billy could remember a time when Tricia had looked as pretty and shiny.

Tricia caved and allowed Anna to eat cereal instead. She drew the line at added sugar. “You’ll rot every tooth in your head, catch diabetes if you’re not careful.”

The glass of milk paused at John’s mouth and he repeated catch with a sneer. He looked tired, the black under his eyes recalling the smudges of mascara on Tricia’s face in those days after Michael.

“Are you feeling all right?” Billy asked. Too late, he realized the now-familiar question would only annoy the boy.

“Jesus,” John said. “I’m not going to kill myself, okay?”

Everyone at the table stopped. Copycat suicides, once unheard-of, were now making national news.

“We would never do what Michael did, all right?” John continued, his voice rising. “Tell them,” he said to Anna and Ivor, sitting opposite. Ivor’s tongue poked his cheek and Anna’s face blazed.

“Tell them,” John repeated.

“Stop that,” Billy and Tricia said in near-unison, their fright also matching.

“He’s right,” Anna said, her voice shaking. “You and Mam don’t have to worry about us.” She elbowed Ivor. “Right?”

“Right, we’d never be that stupid,” Ivor said innocently.

Billy and Tricia exchanged a pained look. Anna elbowed Ivor again, drawing a yelp from the boy. “Michael wasn’t stupid.”

“That’s right,” Billy said, knowing they had to talk the thing through. “People who take their lives, it’s because they’re suffering so much in their heads.”

“How did he suffer?” John asked, anger and unshed tears in his eyes. “He was the favorite, always got everything he ever wanted.”

“That’s not true,” Billy said. “Your mother and I don’t have favorites.”

“No, we do not,” Tricia said. “And if any of you so much as think you might be going through anything even close to what Michael must have gone through, you’re to tell your dad and me, or someone, anyone, do you hear me?”

“Yeah,” Anna and Ivor said in unison.

Billy looked at John. “Did you hear what your mother said?” John refused to look at him. Billy struggled to keep his cool. “I need you to answer me, son.”

“Yeah, I heard her,” John said, harsh.

Popping sounds from Ivor’s PlayStation broke the silence. “Put that away, pet,” Tricia said. “You know there’s none of that allowed at the table.” Even before Michael, she’d worried about technology and how the young nowadays thought more of gadgets than they did of people.

Billy pushed away his empty soup bowl and wiped at his mouth with the back of his hand. John made to get up from the table. Billy hesitated. The dinner had taken a wrong turn, but he needed to make his intentions known. The sooner he started to raise donations and awareness, the sooner he would start saving lives. “Just a minute, son, I’ve something to tell everyone.”

“I’m going to be late for training,” John said.

“This will only take a minute.”

John dropped onto his chair, sounding an exaggerated sigh. Billy’s stomach bubbled and spit, as if boiling something. He placed his hand on his thigh, bunching fabric and the solid feel of the seconds soldier in his fist. Ever since he’d pocketed the soldier, he’d taken to carrying it everywhere. He began, his insides thrumming with a mix of excitement and fear. “I’ve decided to go public with my diet and make a fund-raiser out of it.”